


candy

by shamespell



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, M/M, Non-human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamespell/pseuds/shamespell
Summary: Every fall, Cuphead and Mugman would pack up their things and go, and every summer they would show up with a few more stickers on their battered suitcases. Cuphead would be little taller and a little smarmier, a little more confident, his cuffed red slacks bright like a warning beacon. Like a black widow’s hourglass. Indisputably bad news.





	candy

After the dust settled, Cuphead and Mugman left the island in search of adventure or mayhem or God only knew what else. King Dice was glad to see them go and was delighted by the thought that Cuphead was someone else's problem, until he came back. And he kept coming back. Every fall, him and Mugman would pack up their things and go, and every summer they would show up with a few more stickers on their battered suitcases. Cuphead would be little taller and a little smarmier, a little more confident, his cuffed red slacks bright like a warning beacon. Like a black widow’s hourglass. Indisputably bad news.

The two of them arrived the first week the weather turned warm, like clockwork. The din of their little biplanes roared over the island and King Dice hauled himself tiredly out of his seat and went outside to meet them. It was an oppressively humid afternoon and leaving the cool darkness of the casino was like pulling teeth. He leaned on the cavern wall and watched them land in a cloud of dust and dirt, already chattering to one another.

Cuphead was gawky and thin and half a head taller than his brother but still not tall. He walked with a habitual slouch, his hands shoved into his pockets. Skinny ankles and clunky shoes. His porcelain had lost its childish sheen and had a few irreparable chips around the rim, but it only added to his charm. His shoes were always waxed and he was always, always smiling. King Dice found it infuriating, like looking at his younger self—brash, rude and headstrong. A cocky pissant who thought he was bulletproof.

Cuphead hopped out of his plane and bounded side by side with Mugman up to where King Dice stood in the shade of the casino’s rocky, gaping maw.

“Hiya, boss. Miss me?” he leered. Dice snorted.

“Like an idiot misses the point. Scram, your rooms are where you left them. I’m sure you thugs can handle a few cockroaches.”

Mugman stuck his tongue out at him and Cuphead slapped him on the arm as the two of them ran by him down the stairs, hauling their suitcases behind them.

 

During their summer stays on the island, the brothers worked at the casino as something like servers and busboys, running drinks to and from patrons scattered around the casino, helping the caterers and dealers and whatever else needed doing. Their acrobatics as they bounced through the crowded casino were as much of a lure as the tables.

That first night, Cuphead brought a teetering tray of gin and tonics to a blackjack table and a lady, an old pink rose missing half her petals, touched his arm and drawled, “Are _you_ on the menu, baby boy?”

Cuphead laughed and set her drink down.

“I don't taste as good as any of these fancy drinks, lady.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. What’re you up to later?”

King Dice watched him, as he usually did. It was like watching a car crash or something more artful but just as captivating, like figure skating. Cuphead was good at keeping people at bay; old drunks would shower him with affection and he’d laugh and step back, not enough that anyone would take it as an affront but enough that it gave him some space. It was baffling to think about, given how well he could fight; he could blast any of these lechers into oblivion but he chose not to. It was a sign of diplomacy where Dice expected to find none.

Cuphead smiled and said, “Workin’ late. Evening, ma’am.”

And then he was gone. The old lady craned her head around to watch him go.

Mugman was a generally likeable young man, but time had only made Cuphead more insufferable. He was old enough to buy his own drinks and smokes but preferred to rope others into buying them for him, and he was concerningly good at it. He’d made a name for himself and King Dice hated how much it rivaled his own; he drew in customers with his same sharp-tongued notoriety, half flirt and half threat, and his stupid, bratty attitude brought in more business and bigger tips than the Devil could shake a stick at. He’d made himself so unattainable that every pervert within a hundred mile radius kept coming back to try their hand at charming the charmer, throwing themselves at him like waves crashing against the shore. King Dice knew that game well and loved it—the feeling of control, of desire and power and the money that went with it. Each summer the two of them had more in common and each summer King Dice thrummed with anxious rage and tried to figure out how to get rid of him.

He sucked his teeth and left to find something better to do with his time.

 

The worst part was that Cuphead didn’t always say _no._ Sunday nights, he’d show up an hour late for his shift with teeth marks in his straw, whistling to himself and walking with a certain spring in his step, and King Dice would grimace until his face hurt. It only got worse the first shift he had with their new bartender, Wally, a walrus who was indebted to the Devil for bailing him out of a string of assault charges. He had a thick beard and massive, tattooed fins and when he was behind the bar it took Cuphead twice as long to get anyone their drinks because he'd lean over the counter chatting with him, laughing and twiddling his straw. King Dice would watch them and hate them, and hate himself. He wanted to wring Cuphead’s neck, except for when he didn't.

 

It didn't take long for the Devil to notice and call King Dice up to his office after close.

“You don't take your eyes off him all night. You look like a damn fool, if I’m bein’ honest with you. Getting all bent outta shape over some kid.”

King Dice spoke through his teeth. “He’s strutting around the place like it’s his own personal harem and I do _not_ care for it. I think that’s well within my right as his manager.”

“It’s _my_ casino,” the Devil corrected, poking him in the chest with his foot from where he sat on his throne, “and in _my_ casino, he could be out there in fishnets and a cocktail dress and I wouldn’t give a hoot so long as he’s making bank. If those greaseballs wanna pump him fulla hooch and bend him over a slot machine, they’re buyin’ that hooch from _us_ , so that’s fine by me.”

King Dice said nothing. He couldn’t figure out how to phrase what he wanted, how to explain that they looked like idiots employing a saucy young busboy like they didn’t know any better.

“You’re a smart fellow,” the Devil said. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, if you know what I mean.”

King Dice grimaced, humiliated that he had to be told _._ “Of course, sir.”

“That kid’s about as cuddly as a sack of hammers. He’s here because he’s dumb enough to let me keep tabs on him and not for anything else. Remember that.”

King Dice just barely kept himself from saying _you sure he’s not keeping tabs on YOU?_ and his heart beat angrily in his head.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, sir.”

The Devil squinted at him. “Good. Keep it that way.”

 

King Dice kept to himself for a grand total of three days. Then it was Friday, and the fishermen who haunted the poker tables every weekend were flushed with cash after selling their week’s catch and wasted a good amount of that cash buying Cuphead drinks. King Dice would have been surprised if he hadn’t seen time and time again how even the most straight-laced men had their moments: one of the boys—Cuphead or Mugman, they both got the attention—would laugh and chat with them, put their hand on the man’s arm, and there would be an unmistakable flicker of interest that passed over the guy’s face. Not all the time, but once in a while: a quiet, dawning _huh, imagine that._ And then the boy would leave and the man would watch him go. When he came back, the man would order two drinks instead of one and he’d get company for the length of the beverage, which lasted a lot longer for Cuphead than it did for Mugman; Mugman, who had less interest in flirting than his brother did and infinitely less interest in men, would usually just knock the drink back and go.

Even with the drinks, Cuphead didn’t linger at any one table or with any one patron as the night wore on and flitted erratically around the room. The only place he loitered was at the bar, where Wally was slinging drinks and openly indulging his loitering by giving him shots every time he brought empties back, explaining the fancy cocktails he shook up with unnecessary detail. Cuphead looked impressed, as if they weren’t average fare that every dish pig knew how to throw together. Dice was schmoozing with some of the casino’s higher-end clientele by the roulette wheel and kept missing threads of conversation because he turned around to watch the bar. Cuphead was always there, leaning against a stool and listening as Wally explained the difference between whiskey and rye or whatever bottom-feeding morsels of knowledge he felt he knew anything about.

Cuphead rarely drank enough to get drunk, which made him all the more intimidating, and all the more alluring when he _did_ get drunk, with the added thrill of seeing someone with such low inhibitions lower them further. He’d flirt with anything that moved and he’d be handsy in a way he never was sober and it was upsettingly provocative. Wally certainly seemed to think so, or that’s how it looked from where King Dice sat—when Cuphead put his hand on his arm and laughed, he leaned into it and leered at him. Dice could imagine how the old drunkard must have smelled, like cheap cigarettes, beer and sardines, and didn't know how the kid could stand it. He fumed silently. When he ordered another drink, it was Mugman who brought it to him.

“Your brother’s not getting much work done,” Dice grumbled, nodding at the bar. Mugman turned around, saw Cuphead and sighed a very tired sigh.

“That’s Cup for ya,” he said, setting Dice’s bourbon down. “Seems pretty keen on that new Wally fellow this time ‘round. Couldn’t tell ya why.”

Dice picked up the drink and sipped it. As he watched, Cuphead traced a finger along one of Wally’s poorly drawn anchor tattoos. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Sure ain't. You know who I liked? That candlestick gal he went with last summer. She had him cleaning up real nice, at least. And what a knockout.”

King Dice remembered her. She was a tall, pale candle with a pretty face, the daughter of one of the casino’s top patrons. She spent the summer galavanting around the island on her father’s dime, getting men to throw themselves at her feet, and from all of them, she chose Cuphead to occupy her time. The two of them spent the summer either wrapped around each other or causing property damage. It hadn't bothered King Dice at the time and he felt strange thinking back on it.

Mugman said, “I can get him to knock it off if you want. Or, I can try, at least.”

Dice looked down at him. The passing years had made the two brothers look less alike; aside from the one obvious similarity, their faces were surprisingly different from one another and their bodies had changed, Cuphead growing tall and wiry, Mugman leaning more towards stockiness. Dice didn't know when he started to view the brothers as two separate entities instead of the united whirlwind of chaos they were as children, but he didn't like it at all.

“No,” he said, turning back to the table. “He's an adult now. He can handle himself.”

Mugman snorted. “If you say so, sir,” he said over his shoulder, and then he was gone and King Dice was left with a funny sinking feeling in his gut, like when you think you left the faucet on or forgot to lock the door. A precursor to something very, very bad happening.

Late bordered on early and the casino filled with gauzy smoke and raucous laughter, the sound of riffling cards, poker chips and jewelry jangling against the stems of glassware. King Dice lost sight of Cuphead. The drink at his elbow was always full, no matter which table he lingered at or who he spoke to, and he’d smoked enough cigars that he felt lightheaded and loopy. He was at the blackjack table chatting with a young woman who’d been coming around more lately, who played it fast and loose enough with her money that she’d become one of the Devil’s new marks, a weak soul ripe for the taking. Her name was Cassy and her head was a gleaming golden locket, heart-shaped, and she was pretty enough that it wasn’t a chore to rope her in. It would be going better if Dice weren’t so distracted.

“Who do you keep looking for?” she asked him, her brows knit in worry or more likely annoyance. She fiddled with the fine gold chain that trailed from her head and down over her shoulder.

“We’re having issues with one of our … bar staff,” King Dice said slowly, “not staying on task.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s a shame. Is he a real bonehead or what?”

“You know Cuphead. The .... cup,” he finished, lamely. Cassy tipped her head to the side.

“Aw, right, the lil guy. Which one is he?”

“The red one.”

“Right, right, _that_ one. Boy, folks sure talk about him, don’t they? There’s just somethin’ about him, the way he draws folks in. Makes you wanna know.”

King Dice hummed. He scanned the floor for Cuphead and couldn’t find him, not at the tables or the bar. No one was at the bar—or rather, no one was behind it, but a line of surly guests waiting for drinks stood in front of it.

Cassy went on.

“One of my girlfriends went with him a couple years ago. He was just a kid then, mind you, so we all ragged on her pretty good over it. Not that I’m jealous or nothin’. He goes with _fellas_ , too, you heard? And I just can’t stand by that, you know. Morally. Just don’t sit right with me.” She slurped her drink loudly and when she spoke again, it sounded dreamy. “She said he tastes like candy, though.”

King Dice had heard conflicting reports: candy, gin, lemon soda. He wondered if the taste changed or if he was being lied to. He never asked anyone, but people who had been with Cuphead always brought it up to him unprompted, as if he wanted to know. It vexed him. He took a long pull on his cigar. His head spun and his hands felt clammy.

“Oh, there he is,” Cassy said, extending a finger across the room towards the service hallway where the pass-through for plates and the dish sinks lived. Dice followed her sight and saw Cuphead leaning just inside the mouth of the hallway, in front of Wally.

As they watched, Cuphead laughed and touched one of Wally’s tusks. Wally dug around in his pockets and pulled out what looked like a receipt and a pen, and braced the paper against the wall to scrawl something down. He handed the scrap to Cuphead, who glanced at it and tucked it into his pocket. He took a cigarette when Wally offered it and let him light it, their faces close together. He leaned against the wall and prattled away with the smoke hanging from his fingers.

Cassy said, “I see whatcha mean, hangin’ out on company time. You think workin’ for the Devil would whip ‘em into shape.”

King Dice couldn’t take his eyes off them, half in shadow out of the way of the glaring floor lights. Wally dug into his pockets again and pulled out something small that he kept hidden in his flippers and fussed around with. Then he saw it: the glint of something metal, something white. He was doing a key bump. He lifted it to his grimy, snuffling snout and sniffed it in as Cuphead watched, smoking the cigarette he’d been given. King Dice couldn’t see his face from where he stood.

Wally offered the key and small bag to Cuphead, who waved them away. Instead, he reached up and stroked Wally’s bristly beard, which Wally seemed to like.

Cassy chuckled grimly.

“Looks like you’re losin’ control of your staff over there, Mister Dice.”

King Dice _seethed_.

 

He watched until the two of them inevitably parted, Wally back behind the bar to face the crowd of patrons ready to brawl, Cuphead into the dish pit to grab a fresh set of glasses. Wally lumbered around with more pep than he had earlier in the night. King Dice drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, drank, smoked, and couldn’t calm his nerves. That was _it._ He left Cassy—knowing that he’d get in trouble for it—and elbowed his way through the crowded casino to the bar where Wally lingered alone, watching the flurry of activity that played out at the tables. Dice stormed up to the side of the bar that opened into the back and pushed behind the counter, right up to Wally.

“You are _new_ ,” he started, his voice hissing between his teeth, “but don’t think I’m going to give you an _ounce_ of leeway if you don’t shape up, understand?”

Wally glanced up at him, casual as anything, as if he barely heard him.

“Nice try. Kitchen staff reports to the big guy, floor staff reports to you. You ain’t my boss.”

King Dice stepped closer, right up in his space. “I can _speak_ with your boss. I can get you fired faster than you can slop together one of your weak, putrid highballs, you—”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Wally said, stepping back. “I know this is about the kid, you coward.”

Dice felt his face flush. He was too incensed to speak and Wally went on.

“Everyone on Inkwell knows he’s got you wrapped around his little finger. Ever since he wiped the floor with you and the boss all those years ago, you been pussyfooting around him. Right when I got here and he started coming onto me, the boys said to me, _Dice is gonna be real sore with you about that_ , and fuckin’ look at you now.”

Dice grabbed the front of Wally’s grubby shirt in his fist and leaned in close to spit, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? You’re tryina keep your little boyfriend on a short leash, but he ain't yours to keep. I hear you haven’t even fucked him yet, you old fart. I don't know a single schmuck in here who ain't lookin’ to get their dick wet, so don't—"

King Dice clocked him before he thought better of it. He just wound his fist back and punched him as hard as he could, as easy as that, driven by rage and shame and burning indignation. Wally fell back against the bar and shattered a pint glass and dove at Dice, who just barely avoided the swing of his tusks. He came at him again and Dice, being twice as tall, put his foot out, booted him in the stomach and kept him at bay. Wally sat hard on the ground, winded.

Dice whirled around and spotted Cuphead over at the craps table entertaining a crowd by keeping a chip in the air by shooting it again and again, the _pok pok pok_ of his shots audible over the din of the room.

 _“Cuphead!”_ Dice roared. Cuphead spun around to face him so fast his head popped off his shoulders and clattered back down. The chip he was bobbling fell and landed in a lady’s drink. _“My office! Now!”_

He stormed up the curling staircase that led to his office before he checked whether Cuphead was following and regretted it, realizing how stupid he’d look if Cuphead stayed down in the casino mocking him in front of patrons. He slammed the door shut behind him and paced a futile loop around his small, dark office. He started to pour a drink from one of the collection of bourbon bottles lined up on a sideboard, then stopped, put the bottle down and paced another circle, fuming to himself.

He heard the telltale thump of Cuphead’s heavy shoes on the steps. He took them two at a time. When he strolled into the room, he didn’t look the least bit concerned.

“What’s up?”

King Dice wanted to charge over to where he stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, pop his head off and chuck it against the wall, but he didn’t trust himself, not with Wally’s accusation still rattling around in his head. He gripped the edge of his laquered desk and his pent-up rage made his words come out sharp and fast.

 “Your behaviour and mucking around on the floor is _unacceptable_ and if you don't shape up, you’ll get booted out of here faster than—”

Cuphead held up his hands.

“Wait, wait, hold up. I didn't do any of Wally’s powder earlier, if that's what you're fixin’ to ream me out about. Is that why you were screamin’ at him?”

Dice snarled, “You could shove a Cadillac up your nose for all I care. I mean—”

“Then what, the drinkin’? The Devil said it’s fine if—”

“If someone else buys it, I know, but Wally sure as hell ain't paying for anything he's giving you, so you’re lucky I don't fire you on the spot. _Sit_ ,” he snapped, pointing at one of the leather loveseats that faced one another over a low coffee table. Cuphead bounced over the back of the sofa and landed square in the middle, his feet already up on the table.

“Alright, so I’ll quit takin’ drinks when he offers ‘em. Why don't you talk to _him_ about this? Seems like it's more his fault than mine from where I’m sittin’. Say, is that what you were yelling at him about? Me?”

“It’s not the drinking, it’s you—you—you treating my casino like your own personal _brothel_ , treating my staff like your little harem, bouncing around between partners like you own the goddamn place. It’s unbecoming. It’s tawdry. We’ve put up with it for years, but you—you’re an adult now, and we can’t have you ...” He realized he had switched to _we_ , as if the Devil were backing him up in any way, as if being Cuphead’s keeper wasn’t a role he’d appointed himself into when no one asked. He ran out of steam. “... doing that.”

Cuphead was boldly uninterested. He stretched his arms out across the back of the sofa.

“I don’t see why you care so much.”

“It’s not that complicated. I don’t want the casino’s errand boy strutting around like a common harlot. Capisce?”

Cuphead smiled at him. “Why not? I go with customers too, an' that's good for business. I thought you were supposed to be smart with that stuff, boss.”

King Dice sputtered in indignation. He let go of the desk and half worried he'd fly away without the anchorage. It was too late and he was too old for this. “Listen here, you—”

“I’m tryina figure out which one of us you’re so jealous of,” Cuphead said, smirking, “me or Wally. I got a pretty good idea.”

“You _insolent little—_ ”

“You sweet on me, Mister King Dice?”

Dice charged over and snatched him up by the front of his shirt. “How _dare_ you—”

He stopped when he felt Cuphead jab him between his ribs with his index and forefinger.

“I picked up some real nifty tricks overseas these past few years,” he said in a voice that was nearly a whisper. “I’d rather not use ‘em on _you_ , though.”

Dice hated that it gave him pause. He’d been on the wrong end of Cuphead’s peashooter too many times to _not_ hesitate over the thought of it. He didn’t need to stroke the kid’s ego any more than everyone already did, and backing down would send the message that his attempts at intimidation worked. Conversely, he didn’t want to start a row if he didn’t think he could win. He twisted Cuphead’s shirt in his fist and bared his teeth.

“Are you threatening me, boy?” he spat. Cuphead tipped his face up.

“Are you coming on to me?”

Dice swung at him and Cuphead popped his head off and used the momentary distraction to flip up and out of his grasp. He caught his head and stuck it back on.

“Aw, shucks, boss, I’m flattered.”

“I am not _sweet on you_ , you braindead miscreant, and if you think for one second—”

Dice swiped at him again in babbling anger and he leapt back and landed on his desk.

“Can’t say I never thought about it. You’re a pretty good-lookin’ fella, for an old guy.”

Dice stopped dead as suddenly as if he’d been shot, his outstretched hands frozen in the air. Cuphead tittered at his obvious shock.

“This a real sticky situation, though! You bein’ my boss and all. You must really like me to give it a shot.”

“I—”

“Does the Devil know about this?”

Dice considered telling him about the Devil’s comment about bending him over the slot machines but decided against it; he didn’t want to give him any more fodder than he already had.

He spat, “He’s the Devil, you idiot, he doesn’t give a lick about _workplace fraternization.”_

“Not even when it’s me? I feel like he’d get pretty sore with you. That guy’s not my biggest fan.”

“I could murder you in cold blood and he’d give me a promotion,” Dice said. “There's nothing for him to get sore about.”

Cuphead seemed to consider this for a second. “I don't believe you.”

“It's not for you to _believe_ , it's the—” Dice stopped. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath and held it. “Scratch that. Lemme indulge your little game, if it’ll shut your yap.” He placed his hands together and took a step towards the desk Cuphead stood on. “If what you’re thinking about were to happen—and that’s an big fucking _if_ , kid—I can guarantee it wouldn’t go how you’re thinking.”

Cuphead beamed. “No?”

“I’m not one of those sad, old johns you insist on playing grab-ass with out there,” Dice hissed. “Make no mistake—I would be picking bits of you out of my teeth for _weeks_. Understand?”

He naively expected to see some amount of nervousness or regret on the boy’s face, the look of someone getting in over their head. What he got was thinly veiled glee.

“You don’t say?”

Again, King Dice froze. He didn’t know what to do with that. He wasn't sure anyone would have known.

“You,” he snarled, “are not my type.”

Cuphead, of all things, winked at him.

“It’s sweet that you think that,” he said. He flipped backwards off the desk and saunted out the door, calling over his shoulder, “Back to work, boss!”

King Dice stood there for a few long moments, exactly where he was left, staring at the open door. As someone who took deep and frequent pleasure in playing others, he was painfully aware of when he’d been played.

 

Cuphead had the next few days off. King Dice smoked nervously, not his usual luxurious cigars but cigarettes, the same cheap brand he used to smoke when he was young. He was nearly manic with rage, frustration, impotence, and was determined to beat Cuphead at the little game he insisted on playing. He wasn’t too concerned when he sat down and really went over it—Cuphead was half his age and incurably foolish, a bundle of dumb luck and brute force, neither of which would be helpful in a battle of cunning and … Dice was tempted to say _seduction_ and didn’t.

When Cuphead came back to work he paid no attention to Wally, who was clearly sour over it and spent two shifts slamming bottles down harder than he needed to and stomping around the kitchen. Cuphead, on the other hand, walked nowhere without bouncing. His eyes would meet King Dice’s whenever they were near each other. Dice made a point of not being the first to look away.

One night, King Dice was entertaining a group of patrons over poker and feeling pretty good about it; it was a group of three friends, light bulbs, two men who were fighting over the one woman and clearly had been for some time. One man was clearly winning and the other looked ready to end it all. Dice had been sucking up to him and could practically smell the fresh ink on his soul contract.

“You winnin’?” Cuphead’s voice was close behind him. He didn’t give him the satisfaction of jumping.

“Maybe.” He paused. “If you spoil my hand I’ll whoop you to within an inch of your life.”

“Aw, dry up, I wouldn't do that to ya.” Cuphead leaned close, slid his arms over his shoulders and rested them there. Again, he absolutely did not jump. “Well, you've got your ...” Cuphead flicked a finger between a pair of kings. “Which, you know, ain't bad.”

King Dice was deeply aware of the eyes on them at the table; Cuphead hooked over his shoulder, helping with his hand. It was painfully intimate and it was an interaction, Dice knew, that Cuphead thought he could win. He wouldn't give him anything. He kept his posture stiff and absolutely didn't lean into him.

“The day I take poker advice from you is the day you take advice from me on … acrobatics,” he said. Cuphead laughed brightly.

“I dunno if those are the same. I’m pretty awful at cards, but I feel like maybe you’re flexible, if nothin’ else.” He moved one of his hands and just slightly, somehow subtle, pressed it against King Dice’s chest. “That’s good for acrobatics.”

Dice shivered and he knew Cuphead felt it, because he laughed softly.

“Get me a drink,” Dice said through his teeth. He pushed a couple chips towards the centre of the table to raise. Cuphead drew his arms back from over his shoulders and let his hands linger.

“Sure thing, boss. Two fingers of top shelf bourbon, comin’ up.”

Knowing his regular drink was the final suckerpunch he delivered before he sped off.

 

This went on for a couple days, each of them making excuses to be in the other’s space, irritating and flirting and embarrassing all at once. It was an infuriating game of one-upmanship that neither of them spoke about but both refused to lose.

Then, one evening, King Dice was hurrying from the kitchen back out onto the floor, still thrumming pleasantly with adrenaline after reaming the cook about a table of late orders. He came around the corner from the kitchen and stopped when he heard Mugman in the dish pit.

“Is this one of your bad ideas that you _know_ is bad, or one of the ones you think is good?”

“I got no idea what you're talkin’ about.”

That was Cuphead. The faucet ran intermittently and glasses squeaked as he scrubbed them. King Dice stood around the corner, out of sight and listening.

Mugman said, “You been buzzing around _you know who_ a lot more lately.”

“Aw, that's nothin’, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t seem like nothing. It seems like—"

“I thought you didn’t care about this stuff.”

“I _don’t_ care,” Mugman huffed, “I just—y’know, it’s _him_.”

“So what?”

“So he’s old.”

“Not _that_ old.”

“He’s evil!”

“Lay off, Mugsy, nobody’s anything.”

King Dice didn’t notice that the faucet had stopped running. Without any other warning, Cuphead came around the corner with a stack of pint glasses teetering on a tray and crashed into him full-on. The glasses went flying. King Dice caught two in one hand and watched as Cuphead caught one and dove for the last one and missed it by an inch. It shattered on the ground in front of him. He lost his balance lunging for it, started to fall hands-first into the broken glass, and King Dice snatched him around the waist with his free hand. The movement brought them close and Dice held him there, savouring his surprise, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. He hardly weighed anything at all. He didn’t wrench out of his grip. His expression held notably less vitriol than it normally did and that was _something_.

King Dice spoke lowly. “You should be more careful. You’re not exactly shatterproof, either.” He tapped one of the glasses against the rim of his head so it made a threatening _tink tink._ “Better take care of that pretty, porcelain head of yours.”

It took Cuphead a moment—a glorious handful of awkward, quiet seconds—to speak.

“I’m ceramic.”

“Whatever.”

Mugman stuck his head around the corner and yelled, “Christ almighty, am I the only one gettin’ anything done around here?”

Cuphead snatched the glasses out of King Dice’s hand and ducked out of the circle of his arm.

“I’m going, I’m going! Jeez, boss, you better watch out,” he said, glaring over his shoulder at his brother, “I think Mugsy’s gunnin’ for your job, the way he's orderin’ people around.”

Mugman stuck his tongue out at him but Cuphead was already speeding off and King Dice watched him go, his fingers buzzing with a victorious sort of high, sure that something had changed.

 

 

King Dice climbed the stairs to his office that night to the sound of brooms sweeping trash and debris off the empty casino floor. He flicked on the lamp, hung up his jacket and  kicked the door shut behind him. He sat heavily on one of the sofas and let his head loll back, simultaneously exhausted and buzzing with energy. He had spent most of the week trying to slap some new henchmen into shape, the same way he spent every week, but he was still dealing with a revolving door of idiots the same way he had been since Cuphead first blustered through the casino. That crew had taken him a decade to get together and the years since their utter defeat at the boys’ hands hadn’t been kind.

There were three sharp raps on the door; they sounded from low enough that he had an idea of who it was. He slouched for the door and opened it to confirm his suspicions: Cuphead stood on the other side rocking back on his heels, chipper like he hadn’t just worked a nine hour shift and gotten no less than two drinks thrown in his face.

King Dice let himself sound as tired as he felt.

“Haven't you ruined my life enough already, kid?”

Cuphead said, “Nope!” and brushed by him to get inside.

Dice watched him stroll around the office like he owned it and peer out the grimy window that looked out over the floor.

“Can I get you a drink?” he drawled, audibly obligatory.

Cuphead bounced over the coffee table and onto a sofa. “Well, ain’t you a real gentleman?”

“That a ‘yes’?”

“It sure is.”

Dice didn’t ask what he wanted and poured two neat whiskeys. Cuphead stuck his hand out and took one of the short, crystal tumblers without looking. Dice sat on the couch across from him with his own glass and eyed him carefully.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said slowly. Cuphead just smiled.

“Social call.”

King Dice squinted at him and sipped his whiskey. He brought up the most self-destructive and hedonistic tendencies in him, the very kind of thing he tried to draw out in others for his own personal gain. There was something loose-footed and dangerous about it and it was intoxicating. He hated it. Cuphead seemed fine with whatever was going on, with everything, and that made it worse. He downed half his drink in one pull.

Cuphead said, “You’ve had a hulluva week, eh?”

“Every week is a helluva week when you and your insufferable brother are here,” King Dice spat. “You meddle with my staff. You distract the poor saps whose souls I’m tryina reap. You remind every piece of half decent muscle that the last cronies I recruited got their asses handed to them by a coupla kids, which means I gotta do my _own_ dirty work, which I got done doing twenty years ago. _You’re_ my helluva week.”

Cuphead slurped his whiskey. “Aw, you flatter me.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Too bad. Ya know me better than that.”

“Unfortunately. You _are_ working in Hell, after all.”

Down in the casino, someone shattered a glass and the sound reached them in the office.

Cuphead asked, “You been here a long time, eh? Ever since I remember, folks were talkin’ about this place and the dice fella who ran it.”

Dice sucked his teeth. “A while, yes.”

“He’s got your soul, don’t he? You never said, but I figured …”

He sighed. “Bingo.”

Cuphead seemed surprised.

“How’d you give it up?”

“A lot like you. I was dumb and full of dreams—except he caught me cheating at Texas hold’em, and in exchange for not turning me over to the authorities, he made me sign a soul contract. And I started working for him.” He looked Cuphead over. “I was about your age now, give or take.”

“And you never tried to fight back?”

He shrugged. “It never occurred to me. All he wanted was that I set up this casino for him, then manage it. He was looking for a way to get crumbs hooked and I was … looking for something to do, I suppose. We got on like a house on fire, him and I. The soul didn’t come into play.”

“An’ that’s all you ever wanted? To run a casino?”

“I can do work I’m good at. I make good dough. I can be as ruthless as I want, and once in a while a pretty young thing comes home with me. It ain't a bad life,” Dice said. Cuphead gave him a look and he added, “As if _you_ can talk, you delinquent. You fly around the continent starting fights and you work for the Devil every summer. I sincerely doubt that’s _your_ dream.”

Cuphead guffawed. “You’d be surprised.”

King Dice didn’t like being reminded that him and Cuphead had anything in common. He wished they didn’t and he _knew_ they didn’t; Cuphead was a good kid with a slightly skewed moral compass, but he possessed a moral compass nonetheless. DIce wasn’t sure where he’d put his, if he ever had one.

“I don't understand why you and your brother keep coming back,” he said carefully. “You beat us fair and square, you don't owe the Devil a damn thing. And I know what you’re raking in, and it's not the kind of bread you couldn't get anywhere else. Chump change.”

Cuphead shrugged. “I dunno. It's nice to come see the old man, and it's better if we got somethin’ to do while we’re here. Gets real dull just running ‘round this place like when we were kids, you know? It ain’t a big island.”

“And it doesn't bother you that you're working for the Devil himself?”

“Not much. The way I figure, nobody’s really good or bad. All those folks Mugsy and I were beatin’ up were just like us—sold their souls to the Devil. Maybe it was for something real awful, but maybe they were just being a real blockhead the way I was. No offense,” he added, gesturing at King Dice, who sneered at the joke. “If anything, _we_ were the bad guys ‘cause we were workin’ _for_ the Devil, you know? So no one’s really good, I think, or else we’re all a little bad. Like me.” He paused. “An’ you.”

“Indeed,” King Dice said slowly. “That was surprisingly eloquent, my boy.”

Cuphead grinned. “An’ here you thought I was dumb.”

Dice said nothing. He sipped his drink and regarded Cuphead from across the table; feet up, mostly-empty tumbler balanced on his knee, the picture of easy relaxation. Dice couldn't tell whether he was a good actor or genuinely at ease.

“Speaking of me,” Dice said, and Cuphead perked up. “Nevermind your _social call_ claptrap—why are you really here?”

He sounded exhausted, even to himself. Cuphead tipped his head to the side and smiled.

“Ain’t it obvious?”

It was. It had been obvious all week or, if King Dice were being honest with himself, for years’ worth of summers. Everyone else evidently knew, if Wally’s comments and the half-jokes of many, many others were any indication. He’d always had some very crossed wires, doing what he did, and at the centre of all of them was Cuphead. He tried to muster up some surprise at this revelation and couldn’t.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, finishing the last of his drink. “It is.”

They watched each other for a few more moments. Part of him wished they had the kind of relationship where he could ask him what he was thinking, but they didn’t. He knew very little about Cuphead at the end of the day, only what he’d seen himself or heard from others. His mother was a teapot and his father was a bottle of hooch. He was surprisingly tender with his brother for someone who shot at most of his problems. He was kind to women. He was dumb as hell. King Dice was, despite everything, slightly fond of him. He wanted to know for himself what he tasted like.

Cuphead said, “I was lyin’ the other day, when I said you’re _pretty_ good-lookin’.” He tipped his glass back and forth in some small display of nervousness or embarrassment. “You’re real handsome. If I’m bein’ fair.”

King Dice met his gaze and whatever scrap of self-respect he was so desperate to hold onto didn't seem important anymore. He sighed.

“And you're one of the aforementioned _pretty young things_. C’mere.”

For once, Cuphead didn’t put up a fuss. He stood, knocked back the rest of his whiskey and walked around the coffee table to stand in front of King Dice, who put a hand out towards him. He took it and climbed into his lap.

Neither could look directly at one another; Dice looked at Cuphead’s hand in his, let him go and slowly, slower than anything, put his hands on his thighs. He’d never heard him go so long without jabbering about something, nothing, everything, and it would have been unnerving if it weren’t so nice. He ran his hands up his legs and up his back. He was impossibly warm and skinny under his thin sweater and he smelled of whiskey and something else, like dish detergent.

“We doin’ this?” he asked.

“Looks like it.” King Dice slid his hands down his back, grabbed his ass and dragged him closer. Cuphead made a sound, a giddy, nervous hiccup of laughter. “If you tell anyone, I swear …”

Cuphead laughed. He tipped his head and his straw bapped to the front.

“If anyone’s gonna tell anyone,” he said, raising his arms to rest them gingerly on King Dice’s shoulders, “it’s gonna be _you_.”

King Dice breathed shallowly. He instantly accepted that he was in over his head. He was absorbed in the feel of his hands on him, alive and breathing and so, so close.

Footsteps thundered up the steps to his office.

_“Yo, boss! You in here? We’re all done downstairs—”_

Cuphead jolted. “That’s—”

“Just wonderin’ if you seen—” Mugman banged the door open. “—Cuphead,” he finished, frozen in the doorway.

King Dice and Cuphead turned to look at him, Cuphead still in his lap, both of them speechless in shock. Their empty glasses sat on the table. For a couple of the longest seconds on planet Earth, the three of them just looked at each other. Then King Dice stood, picked up Cuphead in two hands and chucked him towards Mugman, who shrieked.

“For _fuck’s sake,_ Cup!”

Cuphead flipped and landed on his feet, then whipped around to where Dice stood heaving near the couch. “ _Hey!_ ”

“Get out of my office!”

Mugman grabbed Cuphead by his sweater. “You swore you wouldn’t!”

“I didn’t say that!” Cuphead shrieked, trying to bat him away. “I said I’d _try not to_!”

 _“Both of you!_ ” Dice boomed, his face flushed. “Out! Go! We—we’ll talk about this later, I—”

“The fuck we will!” Mugman started to drag Cuphead out the door. “We’re going! We’re gone! God, Cup, I thought you knew better than to—”

“Shh! Christ! You’re not my mom!” Cuphead dug his heels in in the doorway, turned and looked at King Dice. “We’ll—later—thanks for—”

“Go,” Dice hissed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I'll ... see you.”

Mugman dragged Cuphead out the door and down the stairs. King Dice could hear them shouting and babbling and slapping each other as they went. After the sound of their voices faded away, he nudged the door shut, snatched his glass off the table and went to the sideboard to pour another drink. He swore he could still feel him under his hands and could see in his mind’s eye the knowing smirk he’d get when he saw him next.

 


End file.
